


no one needs you more than i

by tevinterimperium



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Blasphemy, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 06:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3280781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tevinterimperium/pseuds/tevinterimperium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you stand in the shower and think about how you are a sinner and how God said that man shalt not lie with man but dennis reynolds never seemed to care about rules and you are inclined to agree with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no one needs you more than i

**Author's Note:**

> a disclaimer: i am in no ways religious, and also i stole the title from "you're the inspiration"

you stand in the shower, the too-hot water running down your spine and making pathways along your chest and arms with your head tilted down to the ground after he’s kissed you.

you know he likes to have a towel lying on the tile right outside the shower but you forgot this time. he likes to not have to walk in the bathroom and get his socks wet, he told you one day after you’d been living together for a month. he held up the offending sock in his hand with a look of disgust as he brandished it before you. you nodded and you’ve followed the rule ever since. which is good, you wouldn’t want him waving any more half-soaked socks in front of your face. he still hasn’t bought an actual mat from the bed bath & beyond that’s only a few miles away at the garden state park, but he ignores you, waves his hand noncommittally and makes that noise he likes to make with his throat, a scoff. you suppose he knows what he’s doing, anyway.

you stand in the shower and run your hands through your hair backwards, starting at your forehead and raking back until you reached your neck.

he ran his hands the other way through your hair, going against its normal flow with the gel you’d applied earlier this morning, starting at your neck and raking forward until he reached your forehead. like an opposing force. he pulled you towards him, those fingers of his digging into your scalp, pulling you closer to him, intoxicating. you can’t deny him. that’s how he works, really, goes against it all. trying to get you closer, impossibly closer, sweat beading on his forehead with his eyes almost closed in dazed urgency. you know he doesn’t follow rules and you think that he purposefully messed up your hair, now, as you rake your own fingers through it. it sticks out from places where he’d tug pointedly as if to say something to you, an order, a command. you suppose he might also like the way you’d looked with your hair mussed around your face, your cheeks red and your eyes blown wide, looking completely fucked. maybe that’s how he likes you.

you stand in the shower and take the soap bar that he bought on walnut street last year that smells of lemon geranium and almost drop it but you don’t, you catch it and run it over your chest, neck, collarbones, stomach.

he did that, too, earlier today after you took of your shirt because he was taking off his and said that you should be on level playing ground, even though you think that you’ll never really be on level playing ground. he’d helped you take it off, commented on how it should be easier to take off shirts when they don’t have any sleeves, tossed it into the corner of your living room and looked at you like how he looks at expensive strippers after too much tequila and a lap dance and a half. that’s usually the point in the evening where you cut him off, when he looks at the stripper across the room like that and she looks at him right back, because that’s when you know you that he is an unstoppable machine of sex and sweat and drive. he’s looking at you like that, frozen, and then he’s kissing you and he’s sucking, hard, and running his hands all over you. he’s not using the lemon geranium soap bar he bought on walnut street last year, though, he’s using his fingers, weak nails that have been bitten in anxiety but they’re still digging into you, your chest, neck, collarbones, stomach. your body is ringing and there are red marks in too many places and you shudder because it is wrong and his lips are wrong and his wandering hands are wrong and he is wrong, but you are wrong too, and you can send God a confession in the morning when you don’t feel buzzed and you aren’t ringing anymore.

you stand in the shower and take your cock in your right hand and gasp through your nose and grip onto the little ledge to hold yourself up because you feel like your knees might collapse underneath you.

he did that, too, gripped your cock and looked you straight in the eye the whole time. unzipped your jeans and heard you release a heavy breath of air that you didn’t even know you were holding, whispered _gorgeous_ to you under his breath but his voice was lower than you’d ever heard before. heavy, like he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs and he was using his last bit of oxygen to whisper a word to you that isn’t supposed to be dirty, but sounded outright immoral falling from his swollen pink lips. you knew how he bragged about how he’s good with his hands and you always thought it was bullshit, thought it was a part of his god complex that makes him a sinner, but one minute you thought you were just a bit frazzled and the next you were dropping your forehead against his shoulder and making terrible, pitiful, disgusting little noises with your mouth and he knew it was all for him.

you stand in the shower and drop to your knees, now, stopping yourself, collapsing onto the white tile with a painful thump, bringing your hands palm to palm in front of your heart, in a praying position.

it’s ironic that you are on your knees now, asking for the forgiveness of God, when you were just on your knees earlier, except instead of asking for the forgiveness of God, you were begging for a cock in your mouth and a lifetime of sins. you feel dirty even though there is water running over you because of what you have done and the fact of the matter is that it was only half an hour ago and you can still feel his fading fingerprints all over you. you suppose you deserve the guilt for going against His word, because you know man shalt not lie with man. he told you that it didn’t matter, that it was bullshit and that you didn’t need to think about any of that, just focus on me, baby, and you’ll be alright. sometimes he calls you _baby_ but you don’t know how to respond so you nod and pretend like what he says makes sense. he says he’ll take care of you. he always says he will.

you kneel in the shower tilt your head back and strain your neck, trying to look up at God or somewhere close to Him, closing your eyes as the water runs into your face and makes you cringe.

you looked up at him, too. those blue eyes. he once described them as the deep end of a swimming pool to himself in the mirror while he had called you in there to look at something, you can’t remember what, but it doesn’t matter. the deep end of a swimming pool that he never went to, but always tried. a country club, maybe, one of those places with golf expanses that smell like dewdrops all the time and martinis with olives that look like they’d just been picked and women in shiny lipgloss and tight, dirty pants that makes them look hot but not like whores. you’ve never been to a country club and neither has he but you suppose you’ll indulge him as he explains his eyes to you in the mirror. that was in the tenth grade, though, and you certainly wouldn’t have imagined yourself recalling that description while looking up at him with his cock in your mouth and his deep-end-of-a-swimming-pool eyes half lidded to look at you hazily. you suppose it’s a turn for the better, maybe.

you kneel in the shower and whisper a hail mary or two, _hail mary, full of grace,_ you say, _the Lord is with thee. blessed art though amongst women,_ you mumble, pressing your fingers tight against each other, _and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, jesus. holy mary, mother of God,_ you mutter, your throat run raw, _pray for us sinners,_ you murmur, _now and at the hour of our death,_ you croak, _amen_.

he is on the other side of your apartment in his blissful sleep, you know it, all wrapped up in his comforter with his eyes closed without a care in the world. he did not say any prayer before he went to bed because he does not believe in God and because he does not feel guilty for what you two have just done. he is too confident, too arrogant. he knows that you are putty in his hands. he knows that you will do anything for him and he lets you go on with it, he knows that you will beg to suck him off and that you will beg to taste his lips and that you will beg for only a morsel of his attention. he is a self proclaimed god and damn it all if you aren’t his only loyal follower, even if you don’t know it.

you kneel in the shower and turn off the water because it has turned lukewarm by now and you don’t want to have him paying extra water bills because of you and you pray for forgiveness with all of your might even if He can’t hear you.

you were taught that there is only one righteous God when you were six years old as you sat in the wooden desk at the front of the classroom with a piece of lined paper in front of you and a teacher standing before a green chalkboard. you were told that there will only ever be a single true God and that is the one we worship at churches, not at other fake houses of worship that don’t comprehend the real thing. you were taught that those who believed in false gods are just as sinful as those who do not believe in Him at all.

he doesn’t believe in God because he thinks of himself as a god; he worships himself as a deity, tells women to kiss the ground he walks on, does anything for approval and praise and a five star rating. if claiming himself a god wasn’t bad enough, pride is the original sin that bore all the others, “love of self perverted to hatred and contempt for one’s neighbor”. he is a sinner in the most corrupt way and you can’t help but fall for him. you guess you might be just as bad as him for allowing that to happen.

you step out of the shower and use the towel to keep the tiles dry because that’s how he likes it, so that's how you'll do it, and you close your eyes tight and try to get the feeling of dennis reynolds' shiny sinful lips against yours out of your mind, but you think you're probably going to hell, anyway.


End file.
